Memories
by princess212
Summary: I wrote this story for college, its written in the style of Raymond Carver. It is a little different, but I'm hoping people will like it. review please


This short story was written for college. Its in the style of Raymond Carver so it may seem a little different. I hope you like it, and please review.

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Memories

I was at the supermarket one day, when everything seemed to go wrong. I looked at your crumpled note, torn but beautifully written, when I noticed your words had melted together.

I can still remember everything on the note:

Bread

2 Cornish pasties

Cheese

Milk

Fish fingers

Women's own magazine

Chips

Lemonade

2 packets of cigarettes

This is the only thing you organised, I was fine with that. Still am. 'A free spirit' you said, and always said.

I often read your notes, I can recognise anything. Down to the last comma, exclamation mark, capital letter. I'm like the great code breakers of the world, I can judge your scrawled writing, interpret your mood. For instance, a curly letter often means your happy or bold writing means your feeling bossy. Especially the deep, black ink I bought for your birthday. I often see that as a warning – you want to make a statement. I was beginning to see that more and more.

It's fair to say I know your habits. Like when you flick through the TV programmes, wake up at seven every morning, slurp milk from the carton. And the ones you carried from being a child – biting your nails, running your fingers through your hair, clicking your pen. What can I say, I know them all.

Maybe it's the house. You never liked the garden wall 'like a prison' you'd say. There's a concrete driveway and a small patch of grass. This was beginning to look overgrown and shaggy – due to a lack of interest on your part. You disliked the urban location – the tower blocks, graffiti walkways, busy roads. Naturally, I've got used to it. I still don't understand what all the fuss is about, and the smog. The smog, you muttered, is constantly drifting around our heads.

You were like that in those days. On this particular evening we watched TV in silence. I remember thinking about how strange this was, especially as you like talking. We were watching the news; you sat with your legs crossed. The kettle boiled in the background.

"Not much on tonight" I said

"No, not much on" you muttered

"Change the channel, love."

"Fine" you said, and afterwards got up from the sofa.

Then you did something which shocked me. You rummaged around in the closet. Nobody goes in there. Not ever. Not since 1975, when we had two children to think about, and we packed unwanted items in there. I watched your head disappear for about half an hour.

Eventually, I heard the door slam shut. You were carrying a pair of sparkly heels. I didn't question you at this point. I gazed anxiously as you drifted around the house, disappearing into rooms for what seemed like a lifetime. Until finally you stood in front of me, blocking the TV from my view. Except this time, you carried a ticket.

"What is it?" I said.

"I'm going out, and I'd like you to come." Your mouth twitched in the corner.

"But why? Sarah, have you seen the time?" I was beginning to feel restless at this point.

"Frank, it's been coming a long, long time. Year's maybe. We'd go out before, back when the kids were little. Why should it change?"

I arranged the sofa cushions. "We're not going out at this time, its ridiculous."

"Well I'm going. Are you coming or not?" you folded your arms

"I'm going."

The short bus journey to the town hall was our quietest ever. Not that we go on many buses. There was a cold breeze, whistling through the cracks in the windows. Your silhouette shivered next to mine, glowing in the moonlight. Finally the bus came to a grinding halt and the mechanical doors groaned, you leapt off the high step and waited for my arrival. The icy wind addressed me like I was an unwelcome outsider. It clawed at my hair, dug its sharp nails into my skin, pushed me backwards so I tripped over the last step, – demanding I take another bus ride home.

"Its cold" you said, gripping my hand

"I'm not surprised, wearing that."

You gave me a disapproving look. "You're not going to be grumpy tonight are you? We came to have fun, remember."

You lit a cigarette. "It's about time you stopped, dear" I said

"I know, I know. I did stop for a while though. I just remember how everything used to be"

I never asked you about this. It would've been the perfect time to ask then, but I was stopped by the entrance bodyguard. The man shone the torch into my face, moving the light onto the ticket.

"Two tickets?"

"Yes, two tickets" I said, and he briskly moved aside.

We walked up the steps, and into the foyer. There were a few plastic chairs in the room, and a section of coat hangers. Women were queuing for the toilets. I took our jackets and hung them up.

You put your arm through mine, and guided me to the assembly door. As soon as it opened the music greeted me with a blast. The disco was already in progress.

We walked to middle of the dance floor. I can say with confidence you were feeling excited at this point. I shuffled my feet.

"Come on, Frank." you said

I stared at the flashing lights, the young DJ, the disco ball glittering above our heads. It was no use.

"It's too hot" I said "lets buy a drink?" you shook your head in response.

"You can do it. You've done this already, think back to the dances. Think 1975." You were never bothered about the simple things in life, but dance had an impact on your mood. That's what you cared about. Knowing this I waved my arms around, hitting a tall couple on my right.

You put my hands on the curve of your waist. "I'll show you. First of all we do the side step. Yes, and in time with me." I was looking around at other couples for clues "watch me, and kick your leg out. Good. You need to keep your hand on my waist – for balance you see. Don't ask me how I can remember all this. See Chloe and Tom over there? That's what we need to do."

I nodded, trying to encourage you. As for the teenagers, they were moving far too close for my liking.

I stamped on your foot; the high screeching rang in my ears. It boomed louder than the speakers, throbbing inside my head. You jumped backwards, as I stared in shock.

"I'm, I'm sorry. Are you ok?" I said.

"Yes…..I will be" you rubbed your foot "It's just a simple step, why can't you do it?"

"I've had enough Sarah, its getting late. I can't remember it, let's go home."

"Can't or won't?"

"I'm finding it hard…….." but you weren't in a caring mood.

"You're not even trying! Come on, you can _do_ this Frank! Remember the dances; remember how it used to be."

My hands swung loosely at my side, I was wondering what I could do to make things easier. I stared into your blue eyes, now cold and glazed like a mannequin. It was at this moment I knew you'd gone forever.

"Oh, for gods sake!" you said "I've put up with you for so long, but you've taken it a step too far. Time has changed – and not always for the better. You don't care any more! Not like you used to. I guess that's it."

And yes it was. I still search for you everyday, still see your figure in a busy crowd. Still carry on doing chores and supermarket shopping. Although, sometimes I feel lost in my own world.

The trolley wheels squeak on the polished floor, I am searching for your favourite magazine. I'm proud of being organised, I know the supermarket from back to front – I can do our shopping in 30 minutes. I know my routine, and I know yours.

There are many things I understand. Like algebraic fractions, the contents of your handbag, rain freezing into ice, the justice system, and World War 1. However, I don't understand this. I'm trying, I really am. Everyday I remind myself of those last few hours, and everyday it gets no easier.

I'm holding 22 handwritten letters, each one addressed to you. I am carefully slipping one between the pages of 'Women's Own'. I know you come here every Saturday, and I know you will pick one up. I glance at my trolley, and begin to feel exasperated. What's the point of two packets of cigarettes if you aren't here to smoke them? What's the point of buying Cornish pasties, if you're the only person that eats them?

Your note is barely readable, but I still take it with me every time I go shopping. My eyes trace the final message on your note: 'we need to talk and you're too selfish to realise. I can see you've given up on our relationship, and for that reason I've gone. Don't write, and don't bother my family.' Of course this is written in deep, black ink.

Suddenly, I spin around on the spot. "I've still got it" I shout "Look Sarah, I can do it!" but you're never here to listen. A woman stares at me, and walks in the opposite direction.

It's not physically possible to go back to 1975, even though I've tried. You see, time is irreplaceable and so are you. If I could build a time machine I would, Sarah.

Still clutching the note, I turn around to go home. The trolley is left vacantly in the aisle.


End file.
